Behind Closed Eyes
by VivusEtIterum
Summary: "there was a scent. One he couldn't quite place his finger on." Oneshot, Complete


There was the scent of alcohol, stale on the man's breath. Cheap aftershave, gasoline-oh, he liked that-and body odor. Old onions and the unique pheromones that composed a man's scent, though this man's was nothing he wanted to smell again. Except the gasoline. Gasoline was always welcome.

"Clean it up boys; let's get, uh, _moving_." He slit the man's throat and threw the carcass on the ground. His distended belly pointed to the ceiling in, what he had to admit, was an impressive display of the lard the world was coming to. This fuck had an extraordinarily gelatinous midsection. Bored and waiting for the namby-pamby's he always seemed to end up with- were there no _respectable _criminals anymore? No. The more cash he made, the more time he bought himself, to, well _play._

Speaking of playing, he jumped onto Ernie's (He'd named him Ernie, between the time he had thrown him out of the truck and knocked him out and slit his throat) belly and bounced a few times, up and down gently. Like a fucking _trampoline._ He threw back his head and howled in laughter. Ernie here would look _fantastic _in green…

Or stuffed with it. Two hours later he grunted slightly and stuck his tongue out, panting with the effort. If you wanted something done _right, _you had to do it all yourself. So he lugged Ernie's dead, decomposing body, stuffed full of bills like a shitty Thanksgiving turkey, onto the top of the mayor's apartment complex. He hadn't left that little prick a swinger in _weeks._ The sky was clear- maybe Batsy had ended his self- imposed exile, and he could finally have some _fun. _Dropping dead bodies off of buildings lost its luster after a while. Even if the body in question was stuffed with bills from a bank he had robbed right under Gordon's mustachioed nose. He let out another high pitched giggle.

And then a crash below him stopped _everything._ He stood stock still, hair moving ever so slightly with the gentle breeze. He peered over the edge of the building and almost let out another giggle. A fucking _woman_ was crawling up towards him. He withdrew his blade-oh, sweet cold steel against her throat. Would it be pale? Would he be able to see the veins underneath the skin, like a lightly traced map? - And licked his lips, reaching into the slight _cracks_ that tore open every now and then. He sat back on his haunches and waited. Waited, waited, waited, waited, waited and then-

"Fuck!" he let the stifled giggle escape.

"Come to join the _party_?" he stood slowly, rolling his neck and letting it pop, pop, _pop._

"I didn't know there was one. What happened to this guy?" she kicked Ernie gently. He stood up on his toes, tense. She shouldn't be touching _his _dead bodies. If she wanted one she could get her own.

"Ernie fell out of his truck. Ha-ha-he–he-_hoo_."

"Did he?" She crouched next to the body and poked around some. "Because it looks like he suffered blunt trauma to the head, and died of ex-sanguination from this slit on his throat. Probably severed his carotid artery." She stood again and regarded him coolly. "It's very nice."

He cocked his head slightly and wet his lips-_damn _the right side was cracking in that little, irksome way that he so hated, and now he wanted to _rip his lips apart to stop the cracking and fucking shove them-_

"Very nice." She whispered. "You're the Joker, yes?"

He jerked his head. The one, little _crack-_he dug his tongue in farther. Maybe if he moistened it the dryness would abate.

"Don't poke your tongue into it, the spit evaporates and it'll dry out more." She said gently. "Here."

She held out a small tube. Smelled of coconuts, fake vanilla frosting, and fresh bread. Fresh bread? So part of it was _her_ scent. Her natural, womanly scent. Another laugh issued from his now softened lips. This woman was _different._ He liked different.

"The Joker is my preferred term of address. What might yours be, m'lady?" he took a step forward.

"Jolena."

"Jolena? I like the _J."_ Another step. She wasn't backing up.

"You aren't trying to escape in the usual hysterical frenzy, why is that _Jolena_?" he asked.

"You aren't the kind of man I run from." She answered, slightly husky. _She _stepped towards _him._

"I'm not? Look what I've _done _to poor Ernie." He gestured towards the lard carelessly. Another step. Very close now.

"I see that. It's _beautiful._" She whispered reverently. She took a step. One dainty, tiny step. He looked her up and down. Kind of curvy, but he liked a little meat on a woman. And she _smelled _heavenly. Oh-ho-ho. Fresh bread, yes. And lemons, a slight scent of lemons. There was some ginger suffused in with the lemon, a nice twist, a little _tang._ He licked his lips. There was _one more thing_, what it was; he couldn't put his finger on it.

He took the final step, grabbed one of her curls and dragged it under his nose. The shampoo was citrus, most likely a grapefruit, but the other thing evaded him. She brought her face into his neck, exhaled raggedly, and there it was that final, little fucking detail-blood.

He opened his eyes. Ah. This wasn't Jolena, who always escaped him before his eyes opened. But she would have to do. "Oh, shush. Shh, shh. It'll be over soon." He crooned. He looked down into widened green eyes. Pupils were so _dilated. _He drew the knife across her abdomen once more. The jagged cut on her throat would end her soon enough, but until then he would bathe in those expressions of terror.

Because that's what it was all about. Not the money, or Batsy, not even fucking with the mob. It was about the _terror_ he instilled. But Jolena wasn't afraid…Jolena wanted to come close to him, share a tube of lip balm. Jolena appreciated a fine butcher when she saw one.

Maybe this one would make it through. Maybe this one, he thought wildly as he noted her life slipping away. Maybe she would prove all the other ones wrong. Maybe she was the Jolena he found behind closed eyes. But a sputter and bubble ended that hope. He curled his fingers around the knife, hot unbridled fury coursing through him. He raised the knife and plunged it into her face. Once, twice, three times. Four, five, six. An eyeball squelched and popped a little ways out. He laughed manically, raising octaves and cackling, giggling, squealing. He looked into the mangled face.

"Maybe it's for the _best. _Did I ever tell you, I'm like a _dog chasing cars._ Wouldn't know what to _do _if I _caught one!"_ He stood up and shrieked his laughter. Kicked the worthless body in the side. Cleaned the blade on a small handkerchief he kept in his breast pocket, and then pulled up his jacket sleeve. 72 hash marks criss-crossed his arms. One line for each failure, each time he didn't get his Jolena. Pressing the blade in, he laughed heartily once more. What doesn't kill you simply makes you…stranger.


End file.
